


Imperishable Bodies

by aphilologicalbatman



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's horse is not amused, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Outdoor Sex, Plague, Service Top, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24364906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphilologicalbatman/pseuds/aphilologicalbatman
Summary: There are many reasons why Crowley hated the fourteenth century, but the Black Death is pretty high up on the list.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 87





	Imperishable Bodies

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: epidemic-related grief, dead bodies
> 
> Soooo this fic discusses the Black Death in England in 1348. I wrote this last summer, long before we were in a pandemic, but I didn't get around to editing it until recently. It's not about the current pandemic at all, but it is about _a_ pandemic. Ymmv, so please read with appropriate caution.
> 
> A thousand thanks to [Yeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats) who betaed this.

Crowley has a nasty feeling that he should’ve taken the left fork about five miles back. He keeps hoping he’ll bump into someone to ask for directions, but he would loosely call the last few villages abandoned. (It would be more honest to call them open-air charnel houses, but Crowley is a demon, so he doesn’t have to be honest.) And Crowley’s horse1 isn’t cooperating. If he didn’t feel bad for the beast, he would’ve left her in the last county. As it is, he’s dragging her along past a village church, arguing with her about some flaw in the road that only she can see. “Look, I don’t think much of churches either, but we’re not going in, you absolute lunatic.” She stomps the ground, and that’s when he sees the bodies in the churchyard, laid out neatly side by side. Waiting. Crowley blesses and nearly stumbles over his own horse. “Point taken.”

She snorts and grumbles at him.

“All right, you hold the fort, old girl, and I’ll check to see if there’s anyone left alive in the place.” He grabs a crabapple off a nearby tree and offers it to her. She plucks it delicately from his palm, and he pats her withers. When he turns around, there’s someone watching him from just the other side of the church gate. He takes a step back, and the horse makes an indignant noise, letting him know that he better not bump into her.

The creature is mostly skin and bones. Its clothes were clearly expensive, but they haven’t been changed in a long time, maybe since before the plague came to the village. Crowley considers several gambits (asking for the directions that he so badly needs, for one), but he goes with a classic: “Uh, hi!”

And the creature says in a voice so familiar that Crowley would know it anywhere, in any language, “Crowley?”

“Oh, fuck, angel, is that you?”

Aziraphale nods once, staring at him. He doesn’t move. Crowley walks to the very threshold of the churchyard, stopping just short of hallowed ground. Up close, with barely an arm’s length between them, Crowley can see the familiar contours of Aziraphale’s face, made gaunt. He’s thin, he’s so thin.

“What happened? Did you catch the plague?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I can’t.” He laughs and smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his dimples show. It’s the same smile that Crowley has known for thousands of years, but it’s all empty. Lifeless. “But they can.” And he gestures at the bodies.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says gently, “they’re dead.”

“I know, I know,” he says, brushing it off. “I watched them die.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Crowley walks through the gate, wraps his arms around Aziraphale, and holds on for dear life. Aziraphale begins to laugh. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe my body is dying.”

“Aziraphale—”

“You can’t walk on consecrated ground,” Aziraphale says patiently as if Crowley, and the burning soles of his not-exactly-shoes, weren’t perfectly aware of that fact. “You can’t be here.”

“Look,” Crowley says, “it’s more of a deeply bad idea, and I am here, so I don’t know why we’re having this conversation.”

“You’re not a very good hallucination,” Aziraphale tells him, and that’s it: Crowley picks him bodily up, which is disturbingly easy considering Aziraphale normally has a couple stone on him, and physically removes him to the perfectly good unconsecrated ground on the other side of the church wall.

He checks on his poor feet. “Ugh, I’m going to be feeling that for days,” Crowley says. “Did you have to have your mental breakdown in a churchyard?”

Aziraphale is staring at him again.

“You’re staring again,” Crowley points out.

“You’re real.”

“Yep, yes, really here. We’ve discussed this.”

Aziraphale walks up to Crowley and right into his personal space. Crowley blinks at him. The faint but unmistakable feeling of miracle washes over him, poking into his nooks and crannies, double-checking he is who he says he is. It itches. “Was that really necessary?” Crowley snaps.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale says, but he’s positively beaming as he says it, “sorry, sorry. It’s just— How did you find me?”

Crowley shrugs, suddenly discomfited. “I wasn’t even looking. It was an accident.” He reconsiders. He made a turn a few days back onto a pitted little cart track, even though he knew Watling Street was the fastest way to Dover and had been since before the Romans came ashore. “I think I might’ve been drawn here.”

Aziraphale bites his lip. “I was thinking about you.”

“Aw, did you miss me?” he says, joking, but the look in Aziraphale’s eyes knocks the laughter right out of him. “Oh, for somebody’s sake, come _here_.”

He yanks Aziraphale over, the worn fabric of his once-fine tunic tearing under Crowley’s grip, and Aziraphale stumbles into his arms and tucks his face into Crowley’s chest. He doesn’t relax, far from it, tensing against Crowley, but he does start to tremble, and the trembling turns into shaking, almost violent sobs. Crowley holds onto him.

“It was the rats,” Aziraphale says out of the blue.

“The rats?”

“The rats had fleas. The fleas jumped onto the people. The people spread it amongst themselves,” Aziraphale says. “It was the rats.”2

“Oh,” Crowley says, “the rats.”

“Tell me it was your side’s doing,” Aziraphale says, muffled.

“I’m sure it was,” Crowley says, even though they both know that plagues have all of the hallmarks of Heaven. “We should get you out of here.”

“I promised them I wouldn’t leave,” Aziraphale says.  
  


Crowley looks around. His horse, having gotten a taste for crabapples, is nibbling on the tree’s low-hanging fruit. He’s fairly certain that he and Aziraphale and the horse are the only living creatures for miles around. “Promised who?”

“The people who lived here.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says very gently, “they’re dead. I don’t think they’ll be holding you to your promise.”

“I know. But I promised. I need— I need to at least bury the bodies.”

Crowley looks at the shovel standing stuck into the dirt, looks at the neat rows of corpses, looks at Aziraphale, who is filthy and exhausted, and it all comes together. “You were digging graves.”

Aziraphale nods into Crowley’s chest.

“You can miracle up graves, you idiot,” Crowley says. “You’re going to work yourself to death.”

“They deserve the real thing.”

“Aziraphale, they’re _dead_.”

“I said I know!” Aziraphale snaps, and yanks himself away. “I know they’re dead. I watched them die. I wiped their foreheads, and I applied useless poultices to their sores, and I washed their bodies.”

“I’ll dig the graves,” Crowley says, “but you’ll have to put the bodies in them.”

Aziraphale says, “You shouldn’t curse consecrated ground,” but his heart isn’t in it.

“Nope,” Crowley says. “It’s gonna itch like hell.”

Once he’s done it, Crowley would actually describe the sensation of infernally commanding a huge swath of churchyard to dig itself up as similar to having all his skin flayed off and then slapped back on. He shudders and leaves the mounds of dirt graveside because trying to curse away consecrated ground is probably an even worse idea.

Aziraphale says, “Oh, my dear,” and cups Crowley’s face with his hands. Crowley’s skin buzzes faintly with the memory of fighting against divinity and the presence of angel flesh. Aziraphale’s mouth is very close to his.

“We should finish burying them,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale glances over his shoulder, and Crowley watches the bodies settle themselves into the raw earth. Aziraphale covers them with the dug-up soil, eight tidy new mounds.

“I didn’t save them,” Aziraphale says.

“That’s not your job.”

“But I could have.”

“No,” Crowley says softly. “You couldn’t.”

Aziraphale looks away. He toes the packed earth that makes up the road. It doesn’t move under his foot. “Crowley—”

Crowley waits for the end of that thought, but he watches Aziraphale go unfocused, disappearing somewhere far away that he can’t follow. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale snaps back, a false smile plastered onto his face. “I’m sorry, my dear. What was I saying?”

“I’m sure it’ll come back to you,” Crowley says, gently tugging him across the road toward the shady spot where his horse, having run through all the easily accessible fruit on the tree, is munching on the over-ripe ones that have fallen to the ground. The horse gives Crowley a sidelong look as if to say she doesn’t much fancy his taste in company and clears off to explore a little farther afield. Crowley makes a rude face at the horse.3

Crowley sits down in the grass where the tree is dappling the sunlight and pats the spot next to him. Aziraphale settles himself there, folding his legs up. Somewhere, on another plane, Aziraphale is folding up his wings. The summer breeze rustles through the leaves of the tree, and from a high branch, a perfectly ripe apple falls neatly onto Crowley’s tunic. Aziraphale leans over and plucks it off, his fingers lingering on Crowley’s chest.

“Really?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale laughs and climbs into Crowley’s lap. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, running spindly fingers over Crowley’s cheek. And Aziraphale kisses him. His mouth feels the same as always against Crowley’s, soft and plump and needy. He’s warm as he presses up against Crowley, and when Crowley shuts his eyes, it could be any of a hundred times before. Aziraphale rests his forehead against Crowley’s shoulder and takes little hiccupping gasps of breath.

Crowley wouldn’t say he’s good at comforting anyone, but at least he has some experience with Aziraphale.4 “You’ll feel better in your own form,” he says. It might be true or it might not, but he also can’t bear to look at Aziraphale like this, all hollowed out. He isn’t meant to be narrow or thin or angular. He knows what Aziraphale looks like, how Aziraphale has looked since he stood guard at the Eastern Gate, how Aziraphale has and does and will always look, no matter the fashion of the day.

He feels the change before he sees it, not the itch of a miracle but the sudden displacement of his arms to fit around considerably more angel.

Crowley opens his eyes. “There you are,” he says.

“Here I am.”

Aziraphale is, well, Aziraphale again, plump and naked and pressed up against Crowley in just such a way that Crowley can feel that Aziraphale has made a certain amendment to his usual body.5 Aziraphale slots their mouths together, his eyes half lidded, and Crowley meets his gaze, unblinking. The look in his eyes is still wrong, but Crowley doesn’t know that that’s anything that a simple miracle can fix.

The kiss is wet and devouring, Aziraphale biting into Crowley like a ripe fruit. Crowley rests his hands on Aziraphale’s hips and lets Aziraphale take what he wants. When Aziraphale pushes very gently on Crowley’s shoulders, he sprawls back into the grass. The smell of dirt and new growth rises up around him. Miraculously, there are no uncomfortable pebbles underneath him, and all the insects have relocated themselves.

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, who shivers and then shakes out his enormous wings, momentarily blocking out the sun. Crowley remembers a rain in another garden a long time ago.

Aziraphale’s thighs are milky pale where they spread comfortably astride Crowley’s hips. Aziraphale doesn’t have freckles, but there is the occasional pink or red dot marking the skin, a concession to his having a body, a proper body, just like the soft white hairs scattered thinly across his legs. Crowley caresses him, runs his hands from Aziraphale’s hips to the inside of his knee, and tickles there, ever so lightly. Aziraphale squirms and gasps, pinning Crowley down with firm hands on his chest and a glare so familiar that it makes Crowley’s chest ache.

He slides a hand between them, wrapping it around Aziraphale’s hard cock and stroking. Aziraphale sighs, arching his back and grinding down against him. Crowley lets go, and Aziraphale whines at him. “C’mere,” Crowley says, tugging on Aziraphale’s thighs, and he scoots forward. He’s heavy on Crowley’s breastbone, firm and present and so real. He wraps his hands around Aziraphale’s arse, as much as fits in his hands, which isn’t all of it. Of course it isn’t. “Fuck.”

Aziraphale smacks his shoulder. “Behave yourself,” he says in his schoolmarmiest voice, even though he’s naked, sitting on Crowley’s chest with his wings out in the middle of the English countryside. The simple hypocrisy is so unutterably, overwhelmingly Aziraphale that Crowley can barely stand it. He runs his fingers down into the cleft between the cheeks of Aziraphale’s arse, searching, and slides in two suddenly-slick fingers when he finds what he’s looking for.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says in the tone he usually reserves for when Crowley has remembered his favorite kind of French pastry or brought a particularly good wine back from an Italian temptation. Like Crowley is the most wondrous thing Aziraphale, an actual angel, has ever seen.

“Good?” Crowley says, purely for the pleasure of watching Aziraphale try to string words together.

“Very good,” Aziraphale says breathily. He rocks his hips back against Crowley’s fingers, and Crowley cranes his neck forward to kiss the inside of the angel’s thigh, and then, well, Aziraphale’s cock is just bobbing there, rosy and dripping and practically begging to be sucked, and look, Crowley endeavors to please.

He can only get the head into his mouth at this angle, but it’s hot and heavy on his tongue, the faint taste of come salty-smoky. Aziraphale squeaks and bucks into his mouth, and Crowley drags him forward because more, please, more.

Crowley slides a third finger into him because the easiest way to get Aziraphale to fuck his mouth is to rile him up enough that he can’t help himself. Aziraphale’s knees end up in the grass on either side of Crowley’s head, but he’s still holding himself back enough that Crowley can only manage to get maybe half his length in his mouth, and that’s not what he wants, not even close. He shoves a fourth finger unceremoniously inside Aziraphale, and there it is: a little gasp from Aziraphale as he shifts, trying to ride Crowley’s fingers. Then it’s easy to tip Aziraphale forward a little, so that the thrusts of his hips alternatively fuck him onto Crowley’s fingers or into his mouth. Crowley lets his eyes drift lazily shut, relaxing his throat and sucking, terribly grateful that he doesn’t need to breathe. In that moment, there is nothing but Aziraphale’s pleasure and himself as a vehicle of it.

He feels Aziraphale come more than anything else, his skin pressed against Crowley’s nose and his cock stretching Crowley’s jaw: the faint pulse of warmth in Crowley’s mouth, the tightening of his hole around Crowley’s fingers.

Afterward, Aziraphale is curled up next to him, murmuring Crowley’s name and petting his hair as he stares up, faintly dazed, into the leafy branches of the tree and the bright blue of the sky. “You were marvelous, dear boy,” Aziraphale is saying as Crowley drifts back to himself.

Aziraphale has one leg thrown over Crowley’s hips, one arm around his chest. His wings are ruffled and out of sorts. Crowley is going to say something, he is, going to offer to groom them later, just as soon as he’s feeling up to it, but he lets the moment spool out, the warm sun and the angel heating his skin.

He turns his head to speak, and Aziraphale is right there, waiting to be kissed, so they kiss, leisurely and lazy, all wet lips with the occasional flick of tongue. Aziraphale slides his thigh between Crowley’s, pretending to be sneaky, and rocks up against him. Crowley strokes his hair.

Eventually, Aziraphale shifts to straddle him again, rolling his hips against Crowley’s, and Crowley pets the insides of his thighs, runs his nails down them, marks Aziraphale’s perfect and ineffable body. Crowley gestures obscurely, hand not leaving Aziraphale’s thigh, and his own clothes vanish. Aziraphale shivers against him.

“Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale says, reaching behind him for Crowley’s cock, freshly cursed from the firmament. Aziraphale curls a hand around him, deliciously familiar. He’s remembered what Crowley likes, his hand slow and languid on Crowley’s cock. Aziraphale leans back a little, slowly guiding Crowley toward his entrance. He takes Crowley so close but not quite into him, leaving him snug between his cheeks.

Crowley rubs the head of his cock against Aziraphale’s rim, open and wanting, giving him the cool smile he reserves for when he really wants to piss off the angel. But Aziraphale’s eyes are closed and he’s biting into his lower lip. He’s trying to be patient, he is, but Aziraphale has never been good at going at anyone else’s speed.

Eventually, when Crowley is thinking about just maybe sliding a finger into Aziraphale, he says, “Crowley, please.”

“What, here? Like this?” Crowley says, feigning shock.

“Unless you mind.”

Crowley nods. “All right, then.” And lies back down in the grass, curling his arms under his head.

Aziraphale stares at him.

“What?” Crowley says in his best _who-me?_ voice. “You know you’ll enjoy it more if you do it yourself.”

“That’s not the point,” Aziraphale says, trying for outraged but coming out somewhere closer to whiny. “Sex isn’t an illuminated manuscript.”

“We could be a ‘T’,” Crowley says, “or a psi, I suppose, what with your wings and all.”

“That is absolutely not my point,” Aziraphale says, lightly smacking Crowley’s chest. Aziraphale bothers to look cross for maybe ten seconds before he gives it up as a bad job. He stretches his back, pressing his palms against Crowley’s chest and shaking out his wings. Crowley itches to touch them, to run his fingers through them, to straighten out each feather, to make sure they’re taken care of. Aziraphale shifts back onto his knees and wraps one hand around Crowley’s cock, positioning himself. Crowley feels Aziraphale sink down onto him, the thick, close heat of him, the instinctual desire to get closer, more, more. He shifts his hips up just a fraction, encouraging, and Aziraphale is smirking at him, giving him a cat-who-got-into-the-cream smile as he bottoms out.

When Aziraphale has settled, he says, clearly pleased with himself, “Ah, lovely,” and beams down at Crowley like he’s just bitten into a particularly delicious tart.

In that moment, all Crowley wants is to claw his way as far into Aziraphale as possible, so there won’t be room left over for anything else, to push away all the grief and doubt and guilt and all the other things that have hunted Aziraphale across continents, so all that’s left behind is Crowley and Aziraphale’s smug self-satisfied smile. Instead, he runs his hands along the inside of Aziraphale’s thighs and looks up at him, waiting patiently.

Aziraphale is rocking gently against Crowley, slow and thoughtless, and ostentatiously beats his wings against the hot dead air. He stirs up a much-needed breeze and ruffles his feathers, and Crowley thinks that’s all he’s going to do, but then Aziraphale uses his wings to gain some actual height, just a few inches, and then lets himself sink back down on Crowley’s cock.

Aziraphale looks good like this, cheeks flushed, eyelashes golden against his cheeks, mouth red and gasping, so good that Crowley can’t stand it. He has to ruin it.

He says, “Does Heaven know what you do with those wings of yours?”

Aziraphale sighs, leans forward, and presses a hand over Crowley’s mouth. “Hush now, my dear.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale disappear into the pleasure of riding him, his pace quick, almost brutal, ending each downward stroke with a gasp. Crowley wraps a hand around Aziraphale’s cock and strokes, tight and firm, making Aziraphale gasp. He digs his nails into Crowley’s chest, crescents of searing pain, and grinds himself down against Crowley’s hips until he comes across Crowley’s stomach.

Aziraphale, dazed, looks at him, and Crowley opens his arms for Aziraphale to tumble gracelessly into. Aziraphale nuzzles Crowley’s cheek fondly, lying heavy and sated on top of him. Crowley gives him a moment to settle himself before he rolls them over in the grass.

“Crowley, what are you—” Aziraphale says, but breaks off when Crowley pushes back into him. Aziraphale hisses. “Oh, fuck.”

“Mmhm,” Crowley says, lifting Aziraphale’s legs up, so he can hook them around Crowley’s back. He rocks into him, gentle but unceasing, listening to the little helpless noises that are forced out of Aziraphale when Crowley hits home. He can feel the angel’s cock twitching in interest against him. He slides a hand between them, stroking tentatively, as Aziraphale, who must still be sensitive, squirms, wings trapped beneath him. “Do you think you can come again?”

Aziraphale whines. “Crowley—”

Crowley puts a little more strength behind his next thrust, and Aziraphale breaks off with a long, drawn-out moan, the fight going out of him. “I think you can,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale babbles, soft words spilling out of his soft lips, letting Crowley take him, there, on the ground. Begging for it. Crowley’s knees dig into the earth, scoring little marks like burns into the rolling green of the meadow. The pale column of Aziraphale’s neck is exposed as he arches up, and Crowley sucks a love bite6 into the skin there, Aziraphale’s hands scrabbling at his back.

Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s chin and pulls him down into a kiss, bruising and close. He wraps his arms around Crowley’s neck and clings to Crowley as he fucks him.

Eventually, Aziraphale gasps out, “Wings.” Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice. His wings burn for a moment when they hit the air of this plane, and then it’s as though they had been there the whole time. Aziraphale digs his fingers into the base of them where they meet Crowley’s skin. Crowley hisses and gasps, letting Aziraphale yank him down, so their hips meet, skin against skin.

Aziraphale’s face is screwed up into an expression that is half pain and half rapture, his body taut as a bowstring, his heels digging into Crowley’s back. “Please,” Aziraphale says, like it costs him something, and Crowley shushes him with a kiss. He snaps his hips down and then keeps at it, quick heavy thrusts to push incoherent noises out of Aziraphale, to shove him into the dirt, to ground him. Crowley buries himself in Aziraphale, biting down on Aziraphale’s bottom lip and words he shouldn’t say, and lets go. Aziraphale calls his name, soft, into the twilight. Crowley can taste lightning in his mouth, on the air, and the summer storm is instantaneous and drenching, thunder hammering furiously against the clouds as raindrops beat the parched earth.

It clears up almost as quickly as it came. Aziraphale has the decency to look slightly embarrassed, although that might just be the flush from sex. Crowley pulls out and lets himself collapse gently next to him, wings winking away. “I’m just going to—” Crowley gestures vaguely. “—take a nap. For a bit. Wake me up if anything important happens.”

Aziraphale kisses his temple. “Of course,” he says, “you have worked hard, haven’t you?” And Crowley is going to tell him to go fuck himself, he is, but he’s out like a light.

He wakes up to Aziraphale shaking him. “Hngh. Whazzat? Wuss happening?” He blinks sleepily at Aziraphale, who looks stricken.

“You weren’t breathing.”

“You woke me for that?” Crowley stares at him. “Angel, I don’t need to breathe. _You_ don’t need to breathe for that matter.”

“I just— I thought— I thought you were dead.”

“I can’t— Oh.” Crowley quails in the face of Aziraphale’s oncoming tears. He gently disentangles himself and rolls over onto his back. He opens his arms. Almost suspiciously, Aziraphale curls up to him. “Now put your head just here,” Crowley says, shifting Aziraphale a few crucial inches to the right.

“I can hear your heart,” Aziraphale says, very quiet.

“Now, if you’ll just let me, I’m going to— have a rest,” Crowley says. “And then we’ll go off somewhere, shall we? I bet Florence is nice. Or Constantinople! It’s been ages since we went to Constantinople.”

“Well, there were a few texts I’ve been wanting to reread—”

“There you are, then.”

“—and you wouldn’t be _lieve_ what they’re doing with philosophy over there—”

“Exactly!”

“—and we could use a long hot summer, couldn’t we?”

Crowley thinks about that, about proper heat, proper sun, the Mediterranean. “Yes,” he says, “let’s do that.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s chest. He’ll keep watch till Crowley wakes.

* * *

1 Well, more of a mule, really, but please don’t tell his bosses.

2 Some seven hundred years later, Crowley would have a very interesting wine-soaked chat with an epidemiologist at a bar in Chelsea, who would explain to him that, no, the rat theory wasn’t even feasible. Even with all their modern medicine and science, the humans couldn’t explain how the plague had spread so quickly.

3 The opinionated nature of horses was one of many, many reasons that Crowley would be glad to see them replaced by the automobile half a millennium later.

4 Cf. the burning of Ashurbanipal’s library, the sacking of the Xianyang palace, and the Fourth Crusade.

5 Aziraphale was not in the habit of regularly wearing a penis, especially after tunics got so much shorter in the twelfth century.

6 Love bite being both a turn of phrase and, well, true.

**Author's Note:**

> You can try to find me on [Tumblr](https://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/philologicalbat), where I post sporadically at best. If you want to talk to me, stand on your roof at midnight and shine the Philological Bat Signal into the night sky.
> 
> Oh, and here's the [actual-ass scientific paper](https://www.pnas.org/content/115/34/E7892) about the importance of human-to-human transmission for the spread of the Black Plague.


End file.
